Wheeling Gull Isle molotov cocktails on me like accessories

His mouth puckered open and hung there for a second before he could rightly muster the tiny, Oh, of understanding. Her mother's den—wow, well maybe that explained her furiousness at his mistake. Whoops, I'm so sorry, please forgive me— deep in his heart he wanted to abase himself like a puppy, on some level even to the point of rolling over with a whimper and peeing himself.

But she had just told him his time of groveling was over. Shit—he struggles like a fly in a web, caught between his emotional pull to continue his groveling and abject begging on the one hand until she showered him with love and forgiveness, and trying to obediently follow instructions on the other hand, not wishing to incur more of her wrath or make her think he's deliberately trying to vex her. Slowly, unevenly, he manages to straighten, although he still glances up at her sidewise and intermittently, and his nervousness is apparent too in the uncertain half-unfolding and refolding of his ears. O-okay, he agrees readily enough however, if still rather meekly. Then wait no, crap, that sounded rather, uh, grovelly, didn't it, he thinks to himself and therefore tries to correct this. This doesn't make him look particularly less absurd or particularly convincing, as he straightens up further and tries to loudly and authoritatively clear his throat—ah-ahem—and hold his head stiff and straight and higher than before. He's trying for regal but is most likely landing in the vicinity of jester, as usual—but hey, at least he's not-exactly-groveling anymore, either. Then he remembers to add, while holding himself as stiffly and formally as a Victorian lady in an overstarched collar: Oh, uh, yes. My name is Driftwood. He loses a touch of his unnatural stiffness, cocking his head slightly as he adds: Who're you? He successfully fights the momentary urge to add milady, at least.